Author's Notes:

Sporky- I'll be the first to gush out annoying apologies for lack of updates. Pardon my French, but this chapter was a bitch. It took me until I was confined in a car for a few hours with a laptop to get it started, but goodness, I hope never to be inflicted with such horrible writer's block ever again. In happier news, long spaces between updates will probably become regular, because Hota and I have chaotic schedules this semester. :DHurrah! However, the story will start getting interesting in the next few chapters, so maybe they'll flow easier. Maaaayybe. With that said, enjoy the chapter! It'll probably be a few weeks before the next one is out. 

Hota- …Sporky's on crack. (No I'm not.) Chaotic schedules usually do not mean more regular updates. : D Oh well. I just hope you guys don't mind these appearing randomly. I think we're pretty good about every 2 or so weeks, right? …I think… I'm sorry, this makes no sense, but I'm listening to Spamalot. Hahahaha… Please review. Especially you. stares pointedly at Masque

---

Three days before the opening performance of Hannibal

Music. All he could hear, see, taste, feel, and smell was the music. Swirling around him, it enveloped his entire being. With a quick, clean shift into seventh position and a slight trill, Erik pulled the bow to the very tip and ended the song with a soft decrescendo.

He was quite content to stand and bask in the afterglow of the still-ringing note; his fingers still absently holding the holding the vibrato to soften the resonance as it bounced off the stone walls of the cellars. When the last note could no longer be heard, he set the violin down in its blue velvet case and ran a little cloth against the rosin-coated strings. Hands, whiter than normal with rosin dust, snapped closed the lid, depositing the case in its place of honor next to his jet-black piano.

Erik wandered around the room, straightening things up, brushing the dust off of various statues and piling scattered music. He felt a bit ridiculous, but everything had to be perfect. Such an opportunity would only present itself once, and Raoul, the fool, had blindly given him the upper hand. It would be such a shock to the Vicomte when he discovered that Erik had gotten to Christine before he did!

However, some things must be arranged before he could take Christine into his home. The house of a half-sane bachelor had to undergo some serious improvements before it would be fit to be graced with an angel. And right now, it needed food.

Walking into the kitchen, he checked the cupboards for food. The first cabinet he opened consisted almost completely of tea, with a few lemons and a jar of honey hiding inside, as well.

"Plenty of tea," he remarked dryly.

In the next cabinet, there was flour and a few pieces of dried fruit. In the last cabinet, there was a little coldbox, containing a tub of butter, half a dozen brown eggs, and an empty cream container.

"Damn it, I hate going to the kitchen."

With a sigh, he reasoned that his angel was worth the trip to the Opera's kitchens, despite the rancid smell of rotting meat. Gathering up a bag, he walked over to a seemingly solid wall, and pressed two fingers into the grouting.

A step to his left, a wall melted from sight. With a smirk, Erik regarded his own creation and stepped into the tunnel, winding his way to the larders of the Opera.

Looking about cautiously, he checked for any kitchen-maids or sneaky ballet rats who would be trying to slip a snack between practices. After a few minutes he deemed the pantries empty and stalked in, holding his breath. Picking up a few foodstuffs on the way, he found his way to the large cold room and nicked some milk and cream, and made his exit.

Upon arriving back at his lair (secretly, he reveled in such a sinister sounding name), he made a check through one last time, and then made his way to the laboratory. There, he found the potion that would make him Raoul again. The doctor had to make public appearances and his family and friends would start to worry if he spent so much time "away on business".

Erik was almost positive that Raoul had no idea about his plans. He had covered almost every track that he could, and although Raoul knew about the lessons, he could not get inside Erik's mind, unlike his alter ego, who could shuffle through Raoul's very thoughts. Not that there's that much there, in the first place. Honestly, I am surprised that the imbecile has lived this long without dying from the utter boredom of his mind. The boy has no music!

He was a little apprehensive about Raoul. Erik knew that the boy had a history with Christine, and wasn't going to give her up without a struggle. Although his adversary was weak and naïve, Erik didn't know what love would do to the young man. Erik wasn't a fool, he had made the extra precaution of a draught of the potion that would assure his dominance for several more days, which he would drink upon Christine arriving in his lair.

Everything was in order, now all he had to do was wait.

---

Opening night of Hannibal

He was waiting. Raoul, who was lost in his boyish thoughts of Christine, had let his defenses down for a moment, which gave Erik all the opportunity that he needed. Gently at first, he wound himself around Raoul's mind, giving the boy proper warning of what was to come.

Raoul, all too familiar with the feeling, tried to fight it, tried to push Erik out of his mind, but to no avail. He was forced to concede, again. As he blurted an excuse to Philippe, he dashed out the door and down into a corridor where some clothes and a mask were kept.

Taking a few deep breaths, Erik opened the door and slunk into the darkness.

By creeping through the shadows, he reached the passage-way behind Christine's mirror. He allowed himself to be seen once, to frighten a little ballet rat, the Mademoiselle Fuller. They've been needing some stirring up, he thought. The girl saw the flash of his mask and ran off screaming.

Yes, there would certainly be some ghost stories tonight. But not for him. Although he usually delighted in hearing how a girl came within mere inches of her death, he had other plans tonight.

---

"Christine," his voice rang through her mirror, "the angels wept tonight."

Her back stiffened as she sat at her mirror, brushing her hair absently. With a look of absolute rapture, she turned around.

"Oh, Angel, I felt as if I was granted wings! You never told me that singing was so closely related with flying!" she chided him gently.

"Ah, I do believe I forgot that part." Then, growing serious, he continued. "Christine, in honor of your success, I have a special present for you. My angel, come to your mirror!"

He picked up the violin that he had stowed behind the mirror and began to play, watching as Christine's eyes widened in recognition. "Come! Believe in me! Whosoever believeth in me shall not die, but have eternal life!" he called, triggering a switch with his foot that swung the mirror around so she could see a form in black with a violin. "Come! Walk!"

Entranced, she dropped the brush and walked to the darkness. "Angel…." She murmured. He walked slowly backwards, beckoning her with his music. She followed willingly, stretching her arms out to the figure playing the music so familiar to her.

Gently, Erik let the shimmering last note fade, and he stretched out his black-gloved hand to her, careful to keep his mask turned away from her. She hesitated, and then placed her small hand in his, gasping at the coldness. "Angel?" she asked softly.

In a moment of idiocy, he turned to face her, mismatched eyes glinting in the light from her opened mirror, yards away.

As soon as she caught sight of his mask, she pulled her hand back, clutching it to her breast. "You're no angel!" she whispered. "You're... You're the ghost!" With a scream, she had turned to run back into her dressing room when Erik caught her and pressed a hand to her mouth, holding her back to his chest.

"My apologies." He breathed close to her ear.

She went limp in his arms.

---

Women, he thought darkly. You can always count on them to faint at the most inconvenient of times. He gently shifted the sleeping form of Christine in his arms, trying to get a better grip on her. She moaned in her sleep, and curled her small hands around his neck, snuggling into his chest.

Taking a gasping breath, he dared not move her again. Even though she was in the throes of sleep, to be touched willingly by her was such an exotic, unfamiliar thrill. He walked slower, relishing in the moment, not wanting to put her down in the boat.

If he were to stall much longer, she would surely wake up and the sky would come crashing down upon him. Grudgingly, he handed his angel into the cold, unfeeling embrace of the boat and took up his position at the rear, punting the gondola along the black surface of the water.

About halfway through the ride, she stirred, lifting her head to see over the rim of the boat. Immediately upon seeing the water gliding past, she pulled herself up over the rim and threw up, which induced another fainting spell.

Erik was speechless. He was almost positive that angels didn't get seasick, let alone throw up. However, this was the most fortunate incident, because he would not have to deal with an angry Christine in the middle of Lake Averne.

After checking on her to make sure she was all right, he hastened on his way back to his lair. As he reached the dock, he tied the boat and lifted her lovingly out, and carried her to the bed, placing her upon the satin covers.

It took all of his willpower not to stay there, next to her, absorbing the sight of her in his bed, her brown curls splayed over his pillow, her hands nestled in his covers. One day, he told himself. One day, you'll overcome Raoul and she will be yours…

With that thought to comfort him, he headed to the laboratory to take his potion.

---

"CHRISTINE MARIE DAAE!"

Christine knew Mama Valérius was going to be angry. She had full right to be. Hanging her head, Christine turned to face the angry, bedridden woman.

"Just where do you think you have been this past week, child?" she whispered in a low voice. "You just disappear after your first major performance! Do you not think of your poor Mama Valérius, waiting here for you to come to me?"

"I've been in Hell, Mama!" Christine sobbed, throwing herself into the arms of her guardian and letting the tears flow. The woman's hands clasped around the girl's heaving body, pulling her into the bed, gently stroking her messy curls as the girl sobbed. "Hush now, dear, it's all right. Tell Mama what happened, you can tell me…" she crooned, rubbing Christine's back.

Christine hiccupped and shook her head. No! she wanted to cry. I don't want to have to think about it! Mama, make it stop, make him go away! Mama tutted and rubbed the girl's back some more, thinking it to be over some silly man. That Simon fellow is probably giving her trouble again, I'll get up out of bed and beat that rogue with my walking stick if he so much as sends her more flowers!

Eventually, Christine's crying diminished and turned into steady, rhythmic breaths. Mama Valérius took the chance to study the troubled youth's face. In sleep, Christine used to look so innocent, like an angel, but now her eyebrows were furrowed in sadness. Her eyes were ringed with black and red, from crying and lack of sleep. The girl's pale skin looked like a death's pallor in the dimly lit room. She was a mess.

Grimly, Mama vowed to give that Simon fellow a piece of her mind.

---

It had been a mistake. All of it, a mistake. A terrible, horrible, mistake.

He had never meant for things to get this… this…. He couldn't think of the proper word. Groaning, he leaned his head up against the wall, as if the sturdy structure would have some advice to give him.

The wall, as walls usually are, was silent.

It had all started when she had woken. He had given into the most innocent of his desires; which was to stand across the room and watch her sleep. Such an innocent being, such a child, and she would be his. His to love, his to cherish, his to take to his bed every night, his forever.

Can it be helped that the soft curve of her cheek tempted him, even from his vantage point? Erik took slow, mesmerized steps towards his angel. Without even realizing it, he stood beside her, and his gloved hand was reaching towards her sweet face. A hair's breadth from her skin, he stopped.

How dare he attempt to sully such beauty with his touch? Sighing softly to himself, Erik traced the air above her cheekbone. She started to stir, but he refused to admit that she was waking. Christine's dark lashes fluttered against her ivory cheeks.

For a moment, Erik entertained the idea that she would stay calm. For a moment, he pretended that she was already his. "Good morning, my dear."

Those four words shattered his illusion.

Christine let out an otherworldly scream, staring at Erik in horror. She scuttled backwards until she hit the headboard. Erik backed away slowly, raising both of his hands. He wasn't quite sure why he did this, but it seemed to calm Christine down a little. She fell silent, but her deep blue eyes were still wide with fear.

"Who—Who in God's name are you?" she whispered.

"I am Erik."

Christine's shoulders slowly relaxed. "Are you not the—the Opera Ghost?"

"I am only Erik."

She blinked, as if trying to remember something. " And… the—the Angel of Music… was he 'only Erik,' too?" Her blue eyes blazed angrily.

"I am sorry, mademoiselle. I never meant to disturb you." Erik bowed his head slightly and turned to leave the room.

A lone tear trekked down her cheek. "Papa…" she muttered so softly that even Erik had difficulty hearing it. "Papa, he didn't come…." Christine drew her knees to her chest and hugged them fiercely as she sobbed silently.

Was the Angel that important to her? Erik pondered to himself. How innocent she is…. He turned and walked over to his piano in the other room. With half a mind, he noticed that the laboratory's door was open, but he was worrying about Christine right now, not that foolish boy.

Sitting at the piano's bench, he began to play a soft melody. He poured in all of his adoration and devotion for Christine into the sweet piece. Slowly, he heard little footsteps make their way towards him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christine peek her head around the sides of the door frame.

Her eyes were rimmed with red and were a bit swollen. Timidly, she stayed by the door frame, a small hand gripping the side. She gazed, unfocused, at the space between herself and Erik.

Softly, Erik added a wordless song to his fingers' dance on the keys. Christine slowly slid down the door frame, a pained expression on her face.

"Stop it, please," she gasped. Erik immediately stopped both his singing and his piano's music. The silence became almost unbearable, but he didn't dare meet her eyes. All he would see were accusations. Beast. Liar. Monster.

Standing slowly, he made his way over to Christine. He offered his hand to her to help her up. Christine made no move to take it. She made no move to do anything. For all appearances, she seemed content to sit on the floor and weep. Kneeling, Erik placed her hand in his. Christine flinched and withdrew her hand.

"Don't touch me."

The words echoed through his head. Erik's mismatched eyes frosted over and he stood, towering over the girl.

"As you wish, mademoiselle," he ground out through clenched teeth.

---

It was many hours later before Erik dared to approach Christine again. His melting heart had been frozen over once more by her cold words.

She was still staring at nothing in particular between herself and the piano. Erik stood before her stiffly.

"Stand up, mademoiselle." He did not offer any sort of gentlemanly assistance. "It is time you should eat."

"I'm not hungry." Her voice was as dull and bleak as it was on the first day he heard her sing. Emotionless and lost.

"Regardless of hunger, you will not sit there all day."

"I shall do what I want. I do not obey people I don't know."

Erik's eyes flashed furiously. The nerve of this girl! She was in his home, slept in his bed and was now attempting to defy him? Angrily, he grabbed her upper arm and dragged her upright forcibly.

"Mademoiselle, it would be wise to do as I say," he growled at her.

Christine looked up at him, a mixture of hatred, fear, and fury swirling in her eyes. "Unhand me, monsieur."

Viciously, Erik pulled her close to him and grasped her other arm. "Do not order me about in my own home." He could see the fear in her eyes starting to override the other emotions storming there. She shied away from his burning eyes.

"Let me go," she whimpered. "Please." Christine turned her head away and squeezed her eyes shut. Erik glared at her harder.

"Look at me, Christine." Both a blessing and a curse rolled off of his tongue. "Look at me." Reluctantly, Christine opened her eyes and looked at him. "You will eat. And then you will dress in something presentable. You will be having a lesson in two hours."

His long fingers slowly unwrapped themselves from her arms, revealing bloodless lines where they once were.

"You will find a pitcher of water and a lemon on the table. Make sure to drink two glasses of lemon water before the lesson, as usual."

Christine nodded mutely and fled into the main room.

---

Without saying, the lesson went terribly. Christine only had to walk into the room and see him sitting at the piano before she choked up. Still hurt by her disdain earlier, Erik ignored her gulping and started playing a simple scale for her to warm up on. When he saw that she was sniffling instead of singing, he slammed his hands down on the piano keys. The discordant notes jarred for what seemed like hours.

"Mademoiselle, would you care to inform me as to exactly why you are not singing?"

There was no response.

"Perhaps the mademoiselle does not feel well?"

Christine mutely nodded her head, keeping her eyes on her feet. He stood up, the piano bench toppling over in his anger.

"Perhaps the mademoiselle would like to sit down and rest?"

Something in his tone made Christine look at him, rage clouding his features. Scared of what she saw, she backed up slowly.

"Perhaps the mademoiselle would care to go back home?" he growled, advancing on her.

"Perhaps the mademoiselle is not happy here? Perhaps she would like to leave, forget, and never come back?" He had her pinned against the wall, his hands above her head, yelling down into her face. Christine had turned her face away, her eyes tightly closed in terror.

"Perhaps," he whispered, taking her chin in his hand and forcing her to face him, "the mademoiselle would like to take this opportunity to… properly thank the teacher who made her who she is, even though he's not an angel!" With that, her blue eyes sprung open, brimming with tears, and he lost all traces of sanity.

Grabbing Christine behind her head, he buried his long fingers in her curls and pressed her mouth to his with bruising force. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, intoxicating him. He could taste the tears that she had been crying all day, he could feel her tremble with emotion, he could hear her sudden intake of breath as contact was made. He felt her submit to him for a moment, a sweet moment, and then her hands were upon his chest, pushing him off.

She brought her hand up to her mouth, and silently mouthed a few words before realizing the futility of such an attempt. Whirling around, she fled out of the room, running for any place to get away from him.

Her first thought was to run to the bed, but that would simply put her in an even worse position. She had to escape, had to get away from him! Fright hemmed at the edges of her vision; she was desperate. Seeing an open door, she dashed for it.

Closing the door quietly, Christine stood with her back against the door, catching her breath. There was a lantern throwing weak light in the corner of the small, white room, giving everything ethereal shadows. Curious, Christine walked towards a wooden desk, strewn with various vials and bottles, and a large Soxhlet extractor. Forgetting Erik for a blessed moment, she lifted a small glass Erlenmeyer flask that was giving off a light steam. It contained some sort of strange liquid, which looked like oil, but…

Christine….

She jerked up, dropping the flask in her surprise and heard it hit the floor, shattering. To her horror, the door cracked open, and Erik stood silhouetted in the doorway. Terror flooded through her veins as she crept to darkest shadow to avoid his notice. For a moment, she thought that he would leave and look elsewhere. Christine squeezed her eyes closed; fervently praying that he would not see her.

When she opened them, she was met with nothing but darkness.

Christine…

She felt hands on her shoulders, pulling her up from her huddled sitting position on the ground. It sent her over the edge. "NO!" Christine screamed, "Please, no!"

"Get out."

She gaped at the dim gleam of his mask, unable to find words for the second time that day.

"Get. Out."

His hands were still steeled about her shoulders, and he pulled her away from the wall and let her fall to the ground.

"GET OUT!"

Needing no further prompting, Christine jumped up from the floor and scurried to where she remembered the door was, found the handle, and flung herself out of the room with a sob.

---

Foolish! An amateur's mistake, Erik! If you frighten the girl, she'll run. And she'll run like water—down the path with the least resistance. Straight into the open door of your laboratory. Why did you even leave that door open, Erik? Idiot!

You were less than a hairsbreadth from her knowing. Luck smiled on you once today, and that was when Raoul decided to not explain every single chemical property and meaning when he was younger. Be thankful, Erik. She does not know. You still have your chance.

And your chance is very real….

A slow smirk spread across Erik's masked face. He swiftly exited the laboratory, closing the door and locking it.